


The Interview

by caramelle



Category: Marvel, The Punisher (TV 2017)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, F/M, First Meetings, i honestly dk how to tag this thIS ISN'T JUST FLUFF SO, music journalist karen, rock star frank
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-12-10
Updated: 2017-12-10
Packaged: 2019-02-13 02:32:48
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 8,039
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12973827
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/caramelle/pseuds/caramelle
Summary: "So, the photoshoot," she says, clicking her pen into action. "How did it go?""Bad."She waits a long moment, and then looks up at him. "Whoa. Slow down there, I gotta write all this down."She thinks she just might catch the hint of a smile tugging at his full lips then, but it disappears before she can really decide.Or, the one where music journalist Karen gets a new assignment: an interview with a certain up-and-coming rock artist.





	The Interview

**Author's Note:**

> nobody is allowed to say anything about me falling into yet another otp pit. just... shhhh  
> also there are probably gonna be a few minor errors in this bUT I'M REALLY SLEEPY and i just. can't see anymore so pls accept this offering with the knowledge that i wILL COME BACK AND FIX IT TOMORROW 
> 
> there's a lil banner thing i made for this fic that you can find [here](http://mellamymake.tumblr.com/post/168397936856), if you're into that kinda thing

 

 

 

Karen Page is all too used to waiting.

 

There's a lot more waiting involved in her job than she had initially anticipated. Waiting on agents and managers to get back to her emails. Waiting in line to receive her press passes to gigs and shows. Waiting for a specific band to arrive on stage at a music festival with a lineup featuring about twenty other acts. All in all, it's not quite the constant, on-the-go bustle she pictured when she became a music journalist.

 

It does have its moments, though. She appreciates the chance to hang out by herself every now and then, even if it's just for a few minutes. It's a nice break from spending six hours straight hunched over her computer, going cross-eyed as she scrambles to make a deadline; or four long hours on a cramped airline or bus seat, trying not to get her feet flattened by the beefy guy in the window seat next to her who keeps getting up to go to the bathroom every thirty minutes. It's an even nicer break from having to smile nonstop as she interviews the latest up-and-coming indie rocker who can't seem to take ten seconds off scrolling through Instagram, or glad-handing agents and managers at award shows while simultaneously attempting to wring a good quote from them that her editor actually will be happy with.

 

So, yeah, she really doesn't mind the waiting.

 

Although, there are certain occasions where she does find herself getting slightly annoyed.

 

Like when the amount of time spent on the abovementioned waiting passes the _two hour mark._

 

"I'm really sorry," Curtis Hoyle says as he sets down her third coffee of the afternoon — not counting the one she'd had _before_ coming in for the interview. "I just got a text from his manager. They should be here any minute now."

 

"It's fine," Karen lies, returning his apologetic smile with one of her own. "I just hope everything's all right."

 

"I hope so too," Curtis says with a laugh. "Frank doesn't usually do well with photoshoots."

 

She blinks. "He doesn't?" Her interview subject for the day is practically famous for his smoky, broody photoshoots. _Like James Dean,_ as _Billboard_ wrote last month, _but perhaps more rugged, more dangerous, and just a hint more out of reach._

 

Curtis pauses, a shadow of uncertainty crossing his face. "Not that I mean— well. Some people just don't prefer to have a camera flashing at them all day."

 

Tucking the information away for later, she smiles reassuringly. "Of course. Totally get it."

 

"Right," Curtis says, glancing past her to the corridor, clearly visible through the glass doors of the small conference room. "And that's them right now."

 

Karen stands as Curtis does, turning to face the doors as he moves to open them. _Here we go,_ she tells herself, taking a bracing breath and squaring her shoulders.

 

A sleekly dressed woman breezes through the doors first, her lithe frame practically buzzing with a brisk bustle. "My deepest apologies, Miss Page. I hope Curtis here hasn't bored you to tears."

 

Karen allows herself a small laugh, taking the other woman's thrust-out hand with bemused readiness. "Not at all. Mr. Hoyle has been a wonderful host."

 

"Good to hear it," the woman says, flashing Curtis a nod before pumping Karen's hand firmly. "Dinah Madani. I'm the manager."

 

"Karen," she says, quietly admiring the petite woman's forwardness. "It's nice to meet you."

 

A man clad in all black lopes unhurriedly through the doors, and Karen's gaze flicks to him automatically. Frank Castle. His face is half-hidden under a black cap, but she recognises it all too well from pictures and music videos. Hard not to, considering the waves he's been making in the acoustic rock scene — the brooding, mysterious black knight, with not so much as a Twitter or Instagram account to help him build a brand image beyond his low, gravelly voice and hauntingly melodic guitar riffs.

 

One doesn't get a second chance to make a first impression, especially with self-important stage performers. To be fair, she doesn't yet know just _how_ self-important or _un-_ self-important Frank Castle is just yet, but it's always good to set the tone right from the offset. She pulls her spine even straighter, making sure to meet him directly in the eye.

 

To her surprise, he doesn't smile, or nod, or offer his hand for a shake. Hell, he doesn't even look the slightest bit apologetic.

 

Keeping her face neutral, she shakes it off and extends her own hand. "Mr. Castle," she says, pushing past the undercurrent of annoyance to pull up a small smile. She still has to get a whole interview out of the man, after all. "I'm—"

 

"Karen." He makes no move to approach her, hands firmly tucked in his jacket pockets. "Yeah. I heard."

 

Okay. So not only is he _not_ going to apologise for being late — not even a customary, throwaway _'Sorry about that'_ — he's also not going to shake her hand, or smile, or do _any_ of the things people usually do when meeting someone for the first time.

 

She lets her hand drop to her side.

 

"I must ask you once again to excuse our lateness, Miss Page," Dinah Madani jumps in. "The scheduling mix-up was completely my fault."

 

"Album launch madness," Curtis adds with a wry shrug. "What can you do?"

 

Karen flashes them each a proper smile, feeling significantly more charitable towards them than the silent man still standing in front of her.  "It's fine. Not like I've got anything else on for the rest of the day," she says, gesturing outside the glass windows to the pitch black sky, which was definitely _not_ pitch black when she'd arrived two hours ago.

 

"We'll leave you to do the interview," Dinah says, glancing at Frank Castle as if seeking confirmation. He barely even looks back at her, still wordlessly studying Karen, which Dinah seems to take for some sort of agreement. "You have thirty minutes until Mr. Castle needs to leave for band rehearsal. Feel free to help yourself to some water or food," she says, waving at the table pushed up against the wall, carrying a small assortment of snacks and a large pitcher of water. "Curtis and I will be in my office right around the corner if you need anything."

 

She nods, trying to ignore the weight of Frank Castle's stare. "Thirty minutes will be plenty. Thank you." It's not _actually_ plenty, but she's done a lot more with a lot less several times before.

 

With a last nod and smile, Dinah and Curtis disappear through the doors, veering off to the right where Karen assumes Dinah Madani's office is located.

 

Her gaze swings back to Frank Castle. The man just stands there, unmoving, his gaze wholly fixed on her. He hasn't even taken off his jacket, or that _cap._

 

She hesitates. Is it weird for her to invite him to sit? In a chair that's situated in a conference room that belongs to _his own record label?_

 

"Shall we begin, Mr. Castle?" she ventures after an awkward pause.

 

He nods — or at least she _thinks_ he does, judging from the slight dip of his chin. "Go ahead."

 

He still doesn't move from his spot.

 

She glances at the large table, ten chairs comfortably spaced out around it. "Would you like to sit, or—"

 

He doesn't even blink. "No."

 

 _What the hell?_ Before she can really think about it, she blurts out, "Why?"

 

He finally tears his gaze from her, eyes roving slowly around the room. Finally, he turns away from her and begins inching towards the table of snacks. "Never really liked this room," he says, bending his head as if inspecting the contents of the table, hands still in his pockets. "Too much glass."

 

She frowns. "You don't like being able to look through the doors and windows? See what's going on out there with everyone else?"

 

He pauses, craning his head around to look at her. "I don't like everyone out _there_ being able to see in _here._ "

 

Shit. She's completely forgotten to _record_ this.

 

She quickly reaches for her phone, the device lying on the table next to her equally neglected coffee mug. "I'm sorry, do you mind if I—"

 

He turns fully to face her, and it feels as if something changes in his face, even if she can't tell exactly what. "Do what you gotta do."

 

She pauses, thumb hovering over the 'Record' button. "I—I need quotes," she explains after a beat. "For the article."

 

Which she shouldn't have to _explain_ to him, she reminds herself fiercely. Everyone records interviews. She shouldn't feel the need to apologise or explain.

 

He shrugs, expression remaining blank. "It's your job."

 

Ignoring the inexplicable surge of emotion — it's _not_ guilt, she tells herself — she hits 'Record'.

 

"So you just came from a photoshoot," she begins, placing the phone on the table between them and reaching for her bag. "Was it for the new record?"

 

He still doesn't move, apparently content to watch her from six feet away and under the brim of his cap. "For the tour."

 

In the week leading up to the interview, she did a bunch of research to prepare, watching what little recorded interviews she could find on the web. She can't quite remember if his speaking voice has always been this _quiet,_ but it's still undeniably rich with the smoky timbre that's become his signature sound.

 

(God, her phone had better be picking everything up from this distance.)

 

"That's right, you're going on tour," she says, slightly distracted with the task of extracting her notepad and a pen from her bag. She props the pad against her middle with her left hand, clicking the pen nib into place with her right. Not the most comfortable note-taking position, but she'll manage.

 

"How do you feel about that?" she prompts. "Are you excited?"

 

His head tilts ever so slightly sideways. "Aren't you gonna sit?"

 

She pauses, looking up at him. "Aren't _you_?"

 

His gaze flicks down to her notepad. "I'm not the one who needs the table."

 

She disguises her frustrated huff with a small, polite laugh. "I don't feel comfortable being the only person in the room who's sitting."

 

Another long silence.

 

Karen holds his stare, determined not to back down. She's gone head-to-head with the most difficult and temperamental of difficult, temperamental rock stars. She's dealt with condescending pop stars passing judgement on her and her entire industry. She's faced down all-male bands of four or five making insidious, misogynistic cracks about her body to her face.

 

She's not about to cave because of _one_ moody, overly taciturn man.

 

And then Frank Castle opens his mouth, and says the very _last_ thing she's been expecting to hear.

 

"You hungry?"

 

 

* * *

 

 

They end up at a small diner about four blocks away.

 

It's tiny and a little grimy, the kind of place that's open twenty-four hours a day, spends the entire night bringing free coffee refills to homeless people and drunkards and stoners, and always reeks of fryer oil and mayonnaise.

 

In other words, it's the kind of place where _no one_ would do so much as a double take at any halfway famous singers sitting at the table next to theirs.

 

As they're walking in, Karen half wants to snap a picture of the exterior, just for documentation purposes, if not publication. But she catches a glimpse of Frank Castle's nonchalant expression, and the habitual way he tucks his hands back into his pockets just for the short walk from his car to the door, and she decides against it, leaving her phone in her bag. The grubby little diner might be a familiar haunt for him. She still doesn't _like_ him, but that doesn't mean she wants to spoil a source of comfort and routine for him.

 

He doesn't try to hold the door open for her or anything, but just stands aside to let her enter first. Not exactly the heights of chivalry, but still miles off from a middle finger to the face.

 

 _That'd be a good opening description for the article,_ she muses wryly as she follows him to a booth on the far right, slipping into the bench opposite him.

 

"You want coffee?" he asks as a server nods at them, holding up a finger to indicate she'll be over in a minute.

 

She grimaces internally, taking a quick mental inventory of her caffeine intake for the day. "Water is fine."

 

"Coffee and a water," he says to the server before she's even properly reached their table. She doesn't miss a beat, nodding briskly before whipping around to head back the way she came.

 

He grabs two menus from the napkin stand in the corner, wordlessly sliding one over to her before flipping his open.

 

She opens her own menu, giving it a quick once-over before throwing him a wary glance. "Any recommendations?"

 

He makes this small sound, huffing through his nose as he peers down at the options. "Anything but the salad."

 

She frowns at the menu. "There's no salad on the menu."

 

"And for good reason."

 

It takes a few moments, but it finally hits her that he's actually _cracked a joke._ Her head snaps up in surprise — but then the server reappears with their drinks.

 

"Coffee and a water," she echoes, placing their cups down and producing a small pad of paper out of midair. "What'll you have to eat?"

 

She takes their orders and strides off, leaving them in silence.

 

Karen glances around the table, searching for something to say. For some reason, _'So, come here often?'_ doesn't feel like a great start.

 

If Frank Castle is as uncomfortable as she is, he sure doesn't show it. The dim lighting in the diner doesn't do much to reveal more of his face from under that cap, but what little that's visible betrays nothing. His dark eyes track her with something that almost feels like patience, but not quite. It feels more like he's using patience as a veil, to cover up some unidentifiable emotion or agenda.

 

She lets a full ten seconds of this go by before she gives up, drawing a sharp breath before snapping at him, " _What?_ " If she has something on her face, she'd _really_ rather he just come out and say it. Being watched all the time is definitely _not_ a feeling she enjoys.

 

He merely tilts his head again. "Aren't you gonna record this?"

 

_Fuck._

 

"Oh. Right. Yes." She digs into her bag for her phone, trying to fight off the embarrassed flush working its way up her neck. God, when did she become so _bad_ at her job?

 

Once her phone is set up in the middle of the table and recording, she gets her notepad out, too. It's definitely not so she has an excuse to avoid his eye for an extra second or two.

 

"So, the photoshoot," she says, clicking her pen into action. "How did it go?" Best to start with an easy question, especially when she can't quite get a read on her subject right off the bat.

 

"Bad."

 

She waits a long moment, but evidently, that's the uneventful entirety of his answer. She looks up at him. "Whoa. Slow down there, I gotta write all this down."

 

She thinks she _just_ might catch the hint of a smile tugging at his full lips then, but it disappears before she can really decide.

 

"It went how all photoshoots go," he relents after a beat. "Not great would be an understatement. Somewhere between rain on your wedding day and a free ride when you've already paid."

 

She blinks owlishly, forgetting her written notes for a second. "Alanis Morissette."

 

He lifts a brow. "Surprised?"

 

She shakes her head automatically. "No, I— it's just—" She trails off, floundering for an explanation. Finally, she exhales, looking at him. "Kind of, yeah."

 

His forehead crinkles. "That I listen to Alanis Morissette? Or that I quoted her?"

 

"Pick one," she mutters under her breath before she can help herself.

 

Nonetheless, he clearly catches it, because that's _definitely_ a smile that flashes across his face. A minuscule one, practically a shadow of a smile rather than the real thing — but she'll take it.

 

"Look," he says, resting his elbows on the table and loosely steepling his fingers together, "me and photoshoots just don't get on very well. That's pretty much all the explanation I know how to give."

 

"You're uncomfortable," she supplies readily. She sees the shadow that crosses his face whenever he so much as mentions the word 'photoshoot'. He looks exactly the way she feels whenever she's unceremoniously thrust into a spotlight she didn't ask for.

 

"To say the least."

 

She cocks her head. "Why?" He's certainly not the first performer she's ever met who seems to abhor photoshoots and other pageant-style marketing schemes, but it's rare to meet one who dislikes them out of pure personal discomfort. Most other performers she's interviewed tend to talk about it like it's some kind of political statement on the entertainment industry. Like it makes them more unique to profess an unpopular opinion; or more genuine artists to openly scoff at practices that highlight pretty faces and hot bodies more than musical talent while, at the same time, continuing to do hundreds of them to boost their own careers.

 

Plus, it just seems strange at this point. He's been on stage dozens of times. He has thousands upon thousands of adoring fans. Personal preference aside, he should, at the very least, be _used_ to it by now.

 

He falls silent, appearing to seriously consider the question. Finally, he looks up at her.

 

"I didn't start playing music because I wanted people to look at me," he says, firm. "I started playing music because I wanted to play music."

 

She pauses, leaning back slightly from her notepad. "Wouldn't you say that the two things are intertwined?" she asks carefully. "You sing because you have something to say. Your songs carry messages for you. Can't photos do the same?"

 

"No," he says decisively. "Seeing demands interpretation. People look at something, and they decide the message they wanna take away from it."

 

"And listening doesn't?" she says, frowning.

 

He points at the server behind the counter, who's got her hands full working the coffee machines two at a time. "See that lady? People see her in that outfit, that apron with the chowder stain on it, and all they see is a waitress. All they see is the person who's gonna take their order, bring them food and drink, clean up after them when they make a mess. They're probably gonna assume she's not doing so well with money, and they're still gonna tip a lousy ten percent." He shakes his head. "They won't know that she's kind, and patient, and good with kids. They won't know that she scrapes the burnt bits off toast and gives it to the homeless guy next door for free. They won't know that she goes to night classes two nights a week, trying to get her business degree and keep up with her daughter's college fees."

 

Karen looks at him, the pen falling sideways in her slackened grip.

 

He leans back, expression unreadable. "You don't know a person until you listen to them. Shit, you probably won't know 'em even _after_ listening. But you're a step closer. That's all you can do."

 

There's a TV mounted above the counter, playing some football game on low volume. It flicks to another channel, a news anchor speaking inaudibly as breaking headlines run across the ticker on the bottom of the screen.

 

Karen nods slowly. She nudges her notepad closer. "So that's a no on photoshoots, then."

 

He simply looks at her, expression unchanging — but for some reason, she gets the exact same feeling she does whenever anyone else smiles or nods at her in agreement.

 

It's the first time she feels that she might just be getting a grasp on Frank Castle after all.

 

 

* * *

 

 

Karen's always had a love-hate relationship with dentist visits.

 

She likes the feeling of doing the right thing, she supposes. It's good to go to the dentist, and get your teeth all checked out and polished up nice. Good for hygiene; good for health.

 

But she hates just _sitting_ there, completely powerless while a stranger digs around in her open mouth, tapping and scraping and doing God knows what as he attempts to find or fix something wrong with her teeth.

 

That's kind of what it feels like interviewing Frank Castle. Deeply gratifying, but just as grating.

 

He starts off by warning her that he's not going to be much to interview, which she quickly dismisses as false modesty. Next, they run through the basic industry topics — doing press, the album launch, making the actual album, the upcoming tour in support of the album, his relationship with his fans, et cetera.

 

It takes them approximately _ten minutes._

 

Karen pokes at her scrambled eggs, trying to come up with something else to ask him about, but she knows it's a losing battle. Her thirty minutes are up. The interview's pretty much over, and she's got _nothing._

 

She can't help but feel the undercurrent of annoyance for the man sitting across from her building up once again. People are supposed to relax and open up the longer an interview goes on. Completely to the contrary, Frank Castle only seems to be withdrawing more and more. Save for the almost-rant on photoshoots at the beginning, his answers have only been getting shorter and more generic by the minute. She didn't even bother setting her fork down to pick up her pen for the last three questions, because she didn't even know what she should write down.

 

"Told you I wouldn't be much to interview," he says matter-of-factly after a few moments goes by without her firing another question, before popping another bite of lasagne into his mouth.

 

Just like that, the undercurrent breaks through the invisible dam of polite professionality — the only thing that's been keeping her from throwing her water in his face all night.

 

She drops her fork, eyes blazing.

 

"Why didn't you apologise?"

 

He stops mid-chew, looking at her with both brows raised high. _Oh,_ she thinks sardonically, _so he CAN be surprised._

 

"What?"

 

Too late to back down now.

 

"Earlier, in the offices," she forges on, letting the heat of her irritation bolster her confidence. "You were _two hours_ late. Why didn't you apologise for being late?"

 

He swallows his bite of pasta, looking vaguely bemused. "Wasn't my fault."

 

She inhales sharply through her nose. "I didn't _say_ it was your fault."

 

If anything, he looks even more confused. "Then why the hell would I apologise?"

 

"Because it's just what people _do_ ," she exclaims exasperatedly. "It's a _courtesy._ A very _common_ one, I might add."

 

To her increasing frustration, he merely gives her that _look_ again — the one that makes her feel like she's being scrutinised in some way.

 

"What?" she half snaps.

 

He lifts a shoulder in a shrug. "Didn't really take you for the type of person who does things just because everyone else does."

 

She pauses, her mouth hanging half open. "I—" She closes it abruptly, staring at him like she's been caught in a lie. She knows full well that she _hasn't,_ but it _feels_ oddly similar — like he's just seen her doing something she usually does only in private.

 

A buzzing sound cuts through the air, toneless and insistent. He reaches into the pocket of his jeans, pulling a phone out and pressing it to his ear.

 

"Castle," he says, eyes still trained on her. "Relax, Madani. We went to grab a bite. Yeah, she's with me. Not far, no." He pauses, and his gaze drifts off her. "Already texted Micro to cancel. Yeah, we got plenty of time. Yeah, Thursday's still on. Okay." He pauses then, half frowning in concentration to whatever his manager's saying — and his expression turns hard once again. Unrelenting, but not quite unkind, either. "Does it matter?"

 

Karen tries not to _watch_ him so blatantly, but it's difficult to keep her eyes from straying to him when his voice takes on _that_ tone. She's never heard anything quite like it before. It's a little hard, a little rough, and completely magnetic — _impossible_ not to pay attention to.

 

"I've got it handled, Madani," he continues, still staring unseeingly out the window. "I know what I said."

 

Unable to resist, she picks up her pen and starts scribbling on her notepad. _Hard,_ and then _rough_ and _magnetic._

 

"All right. Tomorrow."

 

She looks up just as Frank Castle tucks the phone out of sight. He glances pointedly down at her notepad, one brow raised. "Narrating the thrilling details of my thirty-second phone call?"

 

"Just some observations," she says, loosely (and hopefully, casually) curling her elbow so her hand blocks her writing from his view.

 

He tips his head back and forth, gesturing towards her notes with the point of his chin. "Can I—"

 

"No," she says quickly, tugging the pad closer to her. Her cheeks flush pink, but she meets his gaze steadily when it flicks up to hers. "You can request a look at the completed article before it's published, but I don't make a habit of letting my interview subjects review my personal notes, Mr. Castle."

 

She pauses, and then after a beat, adds, "It's nothing personal." It's the absolute truth, but all the same, her heartbeat takes far too long to cool its quickened pace.

 

He leans back, hands raised as if in placating surrender. "All right." He pauses, for seemingly no other reason than to just watch her for a long moment. "Just make sure I look good when you're telling everyone what a dick I am for not subscribing to the ideals of _common courtesy._ "

 

Her eyes widen — but then she registers the slight quirk of his mouth, the lighter tone that his husky voice takes on.

 

 _Jesus,_ she marvels quietly. _Another joke._ She'd almost convinced herself the first one was a lucky fluke.

 

She gathers her wits, managing to pull up a small smile of her own. "I'm pretty sure all our readers will be devastated to learn about it."

 

"I'll try to think of a juicier scandal in the meantime," he says dryly, picking up his fork.

 

She hums as if considering it. "I don't know. It's gonna be real hard to distract everyone from this heinous revelation."

 

He squints. "Any boy bands I could break up?"

 

She shrugs, summoning up an apologetic expression. "None that come to mind. Sorry."

 

He shakes his head. "Fuck. Might as well kiss my career goodbye."

 

She finally gives in to the grin she's been fighting off for the last minute now. "Might as well," she agrees.

 

 

* * *

 

 

Everything starts flowing after that.

 

They talk about his two-piece backing band a little, inspired by the mention of his guitarist Micro, a.k.a. David Lieberman.

 

"Him and Sarah were doing the folk festival thing for a few years," he says, nodding at the server as she drops off their desserts. "Caught them at a few shows around town. Always liked their stuff, but they never really wanted to go anywhere with it. Said they were more interested in playing for other artists, so I bagged 'em before someone else could."

 

"What about their kids?" Karen asks, prodding her slice of blueberry pie. "Do they come along on tours?"

 

"Sometimes." he says. "When they don't got school. Sarah's pretty strict about that stuff." He shrugs, his features relaxing in what seems to be fond memory. "They're great kids."

 

Karen allows herself a private smile. One short hour ago, she didn't think she'd ever be able to picture Frank Castle interacting with _one_ child, let alone two. Now, the concept doesn't seem so implausible.

 

"I don't know of many performers who'd embark on a nationwide tour with just two instrumentalists," she remarks, trading her fork for her pen. "Not any that work in your genre, at least."

 

That seems to spark his interest. He lowers his fork, slice of apple pie forgotten. "And what is my genre?"

 

She pauses, the pen going still in her hand as she looks up at him. "What would _you_ say your genre is?"

 

He gives a slight shake of his head, eyes trained on her. "Asked you first."

 

She rolls her eyes at the juvenile dig, but purses her lips together, seriously pondering the question. She's more than familiar with his music, of course, having had an ear on him ever since he released his first extended play. But she's never really tried to _describe_ it before.

 

"Introspective alternative rock," she decides after a few long moments.

 

His brow lifts. "Introspective."

 

"Introspective," she repeats confidently, the corners of her lips turning up. "Alternative rock."

 

"Huh." He nods a little. "That's not half bad."

 

"It's a bit of a mouthful," she muses aloud. "Maybe something snappier. Something like… 'mood rock'."

 

He actually looks properly amused at that, one side of his mouth turning upwards. " _Mood rock_?"

 

She shrugs. "You're a bit moody, a bit alt rock. It fits."

 

He tilts his head. "Refresh my memory — is it common courtesy to tell someone they're moody to their face?"

 

She shakes her head. "You _asked._ "

 

"Right, right, I did." He rubs at the five o'clock shadow on his jaw. "You know, some critics say I could technically count as more folk than rock."

 

She nods. It's not a new debate, considering his preference for a stripped-back sound. But in her own mind, she's never really had any doubt. "Some critics focus too much on technicalities."

 

He lets his hand drop to the table. "You don't agree?"

 

She falters then, uncertain if she's qualified to disagree with the best of _Rolling Stone_ and _NME._ "I'm not a critic," she settles for saying, smiling half apologetically.

 

Frank's gaze is steady. "Not what I'm asking."

 

She pauses, trying to find the right words to express herself.

 

"I think music is a lot more than just what instruments or styles you use," she says slowly. "Yellowcard wasn't labelled orchestral music just because they had a violinist. _Rome_ isn't classified as a hip-hop album just because Danger Mouse wrote and produced it."

 

He nods, but it's a bit detached, like he's not really conscious of the movement. "So you think I'm not folk."

 

She smiles. "I think you're a lot more Jon Foreman than Cat Stevens, if that clears it up."

 

He looks steadily at her. "Can't I be both?"

 

She blinks, momentarily thrown off-track. "Do you _want_ to be both?"

 

He considers it for a moment. "I don't know if I could leave off music for thirty years."

 

She should really stop being so surprised every time he cracks a joke.

 

She nods, forehead crinkled in a show of faux sympathy. "Guess you can't be Cat Stevens, then."

 

"Not sure I could deal with a beard anyway," he says, his manner practically _airy._

 

She can't help but laugh then.

 

To her surprise, so does he, eyes crinkling under the brim of his cap as his mouth stretches in his first grin of the whole interview.

 

 

* * *

 

 

It takes them the rest of dessert to get through Frank's earlier years in the underground rock circuit, from endless years playing open mic spots in seedy bars to meeting Curtis Hoyle and getting signed with Skull Records.

 

"I owe everything to that guy," Frank says, and it's easily the most candid he's been all night. "Him and Micro both. They're the ones who got me where I am right now. I'd be dead in the water if it wasn't for them."

 

"But not Dinah?" Karen prompts.

 

He snorts. "Probably more accurate to say Madani's responsible for protecting everyone else from me."

 

Despite his jokes, the respect he has for his curly-haired manager is clear as day. She's a regular feature in his stories and experiences, providing constant support and valuable advice — "even if nobody asked for it," he quips. "Curtis does all right telling me off when I'm being a dick, but he's still a nice guy at heart. Madani keeps it straight no matter what. Ain't nobody like her around."

 

She nods, flipping through her notepad. "What about Billy Russo?"

 

Frank goes completely still, fingers wrapped around his near-empty coffee cup. "What about him."

 

She blinks, looking up at him. "Billy Russo?" She glances quickly through her notes, wondering if she's made a mistake. "You started playing music with him? The two of you had a band, didn't you?"

 

For the what feels like the first time the entire interview, Frank averts his eyes. "Cerberus," he confirms, but she could swear there's something strained in his gruff voice.

 

Something deep in her gut pangs, urging her to put down her pen.

 

"I take it things... didn't go too well?" she says after a long moment of silence, watching him carefully.

 

It's so quick she almost misses it, but Frank's eyes dart down to her phone, still on recording mode. "No."

 

Hesitantly, she considers his reaction. If it had been any other interviewee, she would have pressed a little more, strived to elicit a verbal response from her subject that would shed more light on the issue. If it had been any other interviewee, she would have moved right along to preserve an atmosphere of cordiality.

 

If it had been any other interviewee, she definitely would not do what she's about to do now.

 

Nudging the notepad and pen aside, she reaches out and hits the giant red button on her phone screen, cutting the recording off.

 

Frank's gaze lingers on her hand, and then snaps up to her face. She clears her throat. "Wanna tell me about it?"

 

She's not sure which part she's more surprised by — the fact that she _turned off_ her recording midway through a formal interview, effectively casting aside the only legal protection she has in case of a defamation or slander lawsuit… or the fact that Frank _does_ tell her about it.

 

It starts with two boys fresh out of college, with nothing to their name but a shitty studio apartment and a shared passion for vintage guitars and Tom Petty.

 

It ends with two men on either side of a battlefield, one with a five-album contract with Anvil Records, the other left near broke and completely alone.

 

It's a story of broken trust and pain and betrayal, and it breaks Karen's heart just to hear it.

 

She doesn't know what to say, hands curling and uncurling around her water glass. "I'm sorry," she finally says after a few long minutes of silence. Her voice cracks a little on the word _sorry,_ and it makes her wince.

 

Frank's expression is back to being unreadable. She hates that. "Why," he says, his jaw hard. "Not like it's your fault."

 

She shifts in her seat uncomfortably. "I know. I just—"

 

Frank cuts her off with a harsh scoff. "If this is more _courtesy_ bullshit, you can keep it, all right? I don't need your pity."

 

"And I'm not _giving_ it to you," she retorts, heat rising in her cheeks. Breaking off, she settles her gaze on her hands, swallowing the lump in her throat. "I just hate that anyone would do that to someone. _Especially_ to someone who trusted them. A friend. A partner." She shakes her head. "A _brother._ "

 

After another long silence, she looks up.

 

Frank is looking right at her. His expression is still shuttered — but the hard clench in his jaw is gone, the deep furrow in his brow ever so slightly softened.

 

After a measured beat, he shrugs. "Shitty people do shitty things," he says. "That's how the world works." He spreads his hands. "Hell, I've done plenty of shitty things myself."

 

"But you're not a bad person," Karen insists, the words spilling out of her mouth before she can even think about it.

 

Frank's brow lifts, his features twisting in a mixture of wry cynicism. "No offense, Karen — and I usually don't mean that, but I actually do right now — but you don't know jack shit about me."

 

"I know _that,_ " she says decisively, not even pausing to consider it.

 

He scoffs again, but it doesn't escape her notice that he's gone back to avoiding her gaze. "And how the hell would you know that?"

 

"You don't put on airs, or try to be someone you're not. You'd rather spend all your time talking about what people have done for you than claim any credit for yourself, even when you deserve it. You didn't apologise for being two hours late, but you asked if I was hungry. You trusted me enough to take me here," she says, waving her hand to gesture at the half-empty diner. She pauses for a deep, steadying breath, and then meets his eye dead-on. "No one would ever accuse you of going out of your way to make a good impression, but you're never selfish or unkind either. You're honest. You don't exactly share much, but you make your own efforts to get to know the people around you." She squints at his raised brows. "I'm guessing you didn't pick up all that stuff about the waitress by the sheer powers of silent observation."

 

He's silent, his expression once again unreadable under the rim of his cap.

 

Her heart is pounding. When did it start doing that?

 

She shakes her head. "So, no, Frank. Zero sign of a bad person in front of me. I would say sorry to disappoint, but that would be a lie."

 

She lets them fall back into silence again, the inaudible buzz of the TV and sizzle of fryers and grills from the kitchen seeping into their little booth.

 

After what feels like an eternity, Frank lifts his head.

 

"Start the recording."

 

She blinks. "What?"

 

He juts his chin towards her phone, the screen blacked out and in hibernation mode. "You need quotes, right? For your article?"

 

It takes a beat for his meaning to register, and she starts when it does. "Yes. Right."

 

He waits patiently as she clicks the device back to life, taps on the red button to resume recording, and sets the phone back in the middle of the table.

 

"Well," he says, his voice rough but clear, "I know something about you, too."

 

Her brow arches, half skeptical and half surprised. "You do?"

 

Frank leans back in his seat, posture seemingly relaxed but dark eyes focused as intently as ever on her face. "You're a damn good writer, Miss Page."

 

She can't remember the last time she'd blushed — actually, properly _blushed,_ all self-conscious and flustered. But right now, as heat flames into her cheeks, it feels new and natural all at once, a habit she'd long forgotten she ever even had.

 

She turns her attention to repositioning her notepad and pen in front of her to avoid his gaze. "I'm flattered," she says, keeping her tone as flat and brisk as she can manage. "But it's my editor I'll need to impress, Mr. Castle. Let's get back to the interview."

 

The corners of Frank's mouth turn upwards, and this time, there's a _definite_ spark of teasing in his dark irises. "Okay."

 

"Okay," she echoes back, edging her tone with insistence.

 

 

* * *

 

 

_When someone shows you who they are, believe them the first time._

 

That's a Maya Angelou quote. It's always been one of Karen's favourites — a saying she'd adopted long ago as a personal belief, integrating it into the way she functions and interacts with the rest of the world.

 

It's funny. She must have interviewed hundreds of people by now, spoken with several hundred more. All those people, all those conversations… and that quote has never been more true for her than it is with Frank Castle.

 

He picks up the bill when they're done, refusing to let her so much as reach for her wallet. He drives her back to the label offices after they leave the diner. He even turns off the engine and gets out to walk her to her car, even though it's literally just eight feet away in the opposite lot.

 

As much as Karen believes in the power of words, she's always believed that actions speak louder.

 

She's starting to believe that with Frank, his actions practically scream for him, raw and volumeless.

 

"I'm sorry you missed rehearsal," she says as they reach her car. "I really didn't mean to take up so much of your time."

 

"Don't worry about it," he says firmly. "We've had our setlist decided for weeks now. Trust me, we're covered on the rehearsals front."

 

She gets her keys out and turns to face him, a generic word of thanks already on the tip of her tongue. But somehow, the sight of his face steals the words from her — the slight slouch of his shoulders that makes her feel like he's always trying to fold in on himself, the dark shadow of stubble across his hard jaw, the quiet focus in his dark gaze, still unrelentingly trained on her.

 

She pauses, and folds her arms across her middle.

 

"Why didn't you want to sit?"

 

It's only the second time of the night that he's seemed at all surprised by something she's said. It does something peculiar to her insides, seeing him with that particular expression. It makes her want to see just how much she can surprise him, make his perpetually narrowed eyes widen in that way, that permanent crease in his frowning forehead smooth out with his raised brows.

 

"Earlier, in the conference room," she says, the corner of her mouth turning upwards despite herself. "Why didn't you want to sit?"

 

He stares at her, silent. But there's a different tone to his silence now, one that she suddenly finds herself able to read more clearly than before. A different kind of challenge in the way he shifts his weight, shoulders angling towards her. Almost like an _invitation._

 

She rakes her fingers through her hair, pushing back on the loose, silky strands. "I mean, I _have_ to believe this isn't your first interview," she continues, slightly more confidently. "So, full disclosure, the only other possibility I can think of is that you just wanted to make me uncomfortable."

 

Something flickers in his eyes, so quick that if she didn't know any better, she probably would have written it off as a trick of the light from the streetlamp nearby. "Well, maybe I did."

 

She tilts her head, squinting at him. "You were testing me."

 

The smallest of smiles appears on his face.

 

"Unbelievable!" she accuses, and tries not to think about why she's currently grinning right back at him.

 

He shrugs unrepentantly, the smile widening by a fraction. "You passed, didn't you?"

 

She shakes her head as if in disbelief, faking an incredulous huff. "You do that to all your interviewers?"

 

His eyes lock on hers, making every single one of her senses snap to attention. "Only the ones I want to last."

 

Her breath catches in her throat.

 

Swallowing it down, she clears her throat and forces a polite laugh. "Yeah, well," she says with a pointed, teasing look at her watch, "I don't know about you, but I certainly got my thirty minutes' worth."

 

He nods. "And all it took was four hours."

 

A wry laugh escapes her before she can really think about it.

 

He lifts a dark brow, the movement near hidden under the shadow of his cap. "What?"

 

She looks at him, bottom lip tucked under her teeth. "It's just… funny, I guess," she says after a long pause, pretending to fiddle with her keys so she has an excuse not to meet his gaze. "Four hours. It's a hell of a lot more than I've had to work with in some other interviews." She tucks her arms around herself again, dragging her eyes back to his. "And yet, I feel like I've barely scratched the surface."

 

He looks at her, but something about it feels oddly restrained to her. More _careful,_ somehow. "I told you. I'm not much to interview."

 

"But you _are,_ " she blurts out before she can help it. "You're— you—"

 

But she has absolutely _no idea_ what she could possibly say in this moment right now. There's just so much _more_ of Frank Castle that she hasn't yet seen or heard or felt — so much that she decidedly, desperately _wants_ to. She doesn't want to just go home and type up her notes, the way she always does whenever she leaves an interview. She doesn't want to just send her article in, and file Frank Castle away as another completed task.

 

She wants… more time. With him.

 

She's never wanted that with anyone before. Not like this.

 

"There's another rehearsal I'm thinking of skipping next week." Frank's face is carefully blank, but there's something in his voice that makes her look up. Something odd in the measured tone of casual observation. Something almost _awkward._ "Maybe around… Friday?"

 

"Friday," she repeats, frowning in confusion.

 

"Probably around eight," he says, looking around at the parking lot. "P.M."

 

Realisation dawns on her then, a wave of it pouring over her head and down to her toes. Her heartbeat quickens, but she forces her expression to remain neutral. "And… how will I know if you do decide to skip this rehearsal?"

 

He blinks. "I've got your number from Curtis. I could drop you a message." He shrugs, the movement jerky. "Or, I don't know. Call you sometime."

 

She nods slowly. "You could do that."

 

He nods, too. "I will."

 

She nods again. "Okay."

 

He looks at her. "Okay."

 

There's a long pause then, a _very_ long pause where both of them do nothing but just _hang_ there, staring into each other's eyes. It makes her feel like a teenager getting asked out to prom. It's a strange sensation, but she's surprised to find that she doesn't quite _hate_ it, either.

 

(She _really_ should stop letting herself be surprised when it comes to him.)

 

Finally, she unfolds her arms, flashing a small smile at him. "See you around, Frank."

 

The smile he sends her back is just as small, but it makes warmth bloom inside of her chest, turning everything to soft, liquid gold. "See you, Karen."

 

 

 

* * *

 

****

 

**_A Castle Guarded: Frank Castle on Being His Own Secret Weapon_ **

By Karen Page

 

_At first glance, the image of Frank Castle appears to be one of dark mystery, painted with intrigue and lined with danger._

 

_The person of Frank Castle proves to be all of those things and more — including, to this reporter's surprise, an Alanis Morissette fan._

 

_"Don't tell anyone," he says, stirring his black, sugarless coffee ('like my soul,' he gravely jokes at one point), "but her best song is 'Hand in My Pocket'. Hands down."_

 

_When asked why, Castle shrugs. "Every single line she sings in that song is one hundred percent right. We're all brave, but we're all chicken sh*t, too. She's just the only one who dared say it out loud."_

 

_It's not hard to make the connection between Morissette's confessional lyrical style and the stark, unapologetic rawness of Castle's body of work._

 

 _"I'm not saying I'm about to start writing my autobiography into my lyrics," he says. "I'm_ definitely _not gonna pretend knowing my songs is any kind of equivalent to knowing me, either. I'm just saying. I don't know how to be something I'm not. Everything I say in my music is stuff I've definitely felt at some point. It's not always pretty, but it's always me."_

 

_So how does one get to know the real Frank Castle?_

 

_"How do you get to know anyone?" he challenges. "You spend time with them. Sit down for a meal. Buy 'em a drink. Talk."_

 

_Like we're doing now, I ask?_

 

_He nods, and there's no recognisable smile on his face, but it's clear as day in his eyes. "Exactly like we're doing now."_

 

_(continued on page 27)_

 

 

**Author's Note:**

> thoughts? feelings? opinions? gimme anything you got, i'm not picky
> 
> icmyi, there's a lil banner for this fic [here](http://mellamymake.tumblr.com/post/168397936856)
> 
> i'm also [on tumblr](http://mellamymake.tumblr.com)


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